


Love me today, don't leave me tomorrow

by dragon_rider



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Self-Worth Issues, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam can't change the way he is. That means he's going to end up alone and miserable.</p><p>The realization has him tripping all over himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://shevinesbromance.tumblr.com/post/81651655566/prompt-this-is-really-triggering-so-i-understand-if). Please check the tags before reading.
> 
> Sorry for the fails. English isn't my first language.

It’s ass o’clock in the morning and Adam isn’t done with this song just yet, isn’t done polishing the melody and the way he wants his voice to accompany it and embellish it, but it’s been long crazy hours in front of the piano only interrupted by him picking up a guitar, and he’s getting a little dizzy, his head heavy and his thoughts sizzling in the edges in that familiar way that tells him he should go the fuck to sleep because the song will still be there when he wakes up and he gets so immersed every time he composes his mind will be in the same place it’s in now and he’ll be able to pick it up right where he left it.

He drags his feet out of the studio, lifts one of the many water bottles that sit around his house for the times he gets exactly like this, when it’s easy to forget he’s a Human being with physical needs like drinking and eating. He downs half of it and halfheartedly looks in the direction of the kitchen. A sandwich sounds tempting, but he’s far too tired, limbs trembling minutely with each step he takes.

He debates having a smoke, discards the idea quickly because he doesn’t want to get hyper, he just wants to close his eyes and take a break for a little while.

He undresses down to his boxers, smiling softly when Behati stirs and looks at him with bleary eyes and a small, sleepy smile on her face.

She winces and complains because he’s cold and his stomach is grumbling loudly enough to keep them awake for a few minutes, but Adam kisses her shoulder in apology and it’s not long before they’re both out.

***

“It sounds nice, babe,” she praises six hours later, a small suitcase waiting for her in the doorframe. Adam breathes in her perfume as deep as he can. She has a flight to Milan and they won’t see each other for at least a month, “Just promise me you’ll eat something today.”  
Adam nods. That’s an easy one, really, he’s already munched half a bowl of cereal before doing his morning yoga, “Call me when you land, okay? I love you,” he gives her one last, lingering kiss, enjoying how her breath hitches when they have to let go, “Have fun.”  
“I will,” she blows him a kiss and is out of the door before Adam can ponder whether he’s a lousy boyfriend or not for spending her last two days in town barely paying attention to her.

It doesn’t look like she’s mad about it anyway and it’s not really new either, so why bother?

He doesn’t notice the _I love you_ that’s missing in her reply, fingers already busy with the keys while he hums and tests the notes, intent in finding out where this song is meant to go.

***

They’d been so good together, so _good_ and easy and incredible—he was going to _marry_ her!—he wasn’t even worried about things going downhill, about them losing what brought them back to one another but maybe he should have because her voice that day is apologetic but clipped and he’s not sure why but that feels like an accusation too, like he was the one who pushed her to cheat on him.

And maybe he did. And maybe he’s willing to forgive if not to forget, but he knows her enough to know that if she wanted to make up she wouldn’t be making this confession over the phone, knows her enough to know his arms aren’t the ones she likes being in anymore.

And he gets vicious, but not with her—not that she’s around to put up with him any longer—he gets nasty with everything and everyone else because he’s so fucking done with never being enough for anyone to stay with him through his best and his worst, because he’s supposed to be this talented, handsome, funny guy no one in their right mind would ever leave except they _do_ when Adam screws up, when he gets too wrapped up in his own head and forgets relationship etiquette, his attention span messed and fleeting and impulsive like the flight plan of a hummingbird.

He doesn’t tell anyone he’s no longer engaged. He refuses to believe it yet and he knows—feels—deep down, that it’s all his fault.

He’s not ready to accept it which is pathetic and stupid and just awful.

Behati agrees to be quiet about it and Adam—well, Adam will just have to fucking deal, but not right now.

Later, he promises himself, when it hurts a little less, when he doesn’t feel like he let slip one of the best things in his life right through his fingers.

***

He does notice how much he’s been relying on her for little things—like remembering there’s not a single edible thing in the fridge or the house at all and he needs to stock up or cutting his hair when it’s getting ridiculous and ugly or pausing to close his eyes before he passes out from exhaustion in his own room, the piano bench leaving a nasty bruise on his flank.

He doesn’t cry even though he wants to, even though the tears clog his chest to the point he can’t even smoke because he’s already choking and he remembers the smell of her cigarettes and the taste of them in her mouth and he can’t stand it.

He doesn’t cry because it’d make it too real and he’s not ready for that, not yet.

Soon, he promises himself, and sets on doing anything and everything that doesn’t remind him of her or himself.

***

He doesn’t eat unless someone is around with him. He gets hungry at first when he’s on his own, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, isn’t still long enough for it to really hit like something he should be taking care of and then the growling emptiness in his stomach goes away—or goes quiet, same difference.

He tells himself he’s just too lazy to make something and repeats it often enough he’s convinced he’s half right even though he knows the other half of the reason is misery.

He misses her laughter in the kitchen, her slender limbs around him and her soft lips on his neck whenever he tried cooking for them.

If he sort of quits smoking along with eating properly, well—it somehow balances it out, right? He’s doing a good thing for his body and a horrible one too, but there’s no one around to keep tabs on it because Adam makes sure to bite everyone who gets close enough to realize what he’s doing and what he’s not.

His worst attributes come to rear their ugly head and Adam just welcomes them to the wreck he knows he’s always been on the inside, to the wreck he’ll just have to conceal from everyone else if he doesn’t want to be left alone.

***

The world is so fucked-up is a bit funny, really, because while Adam feels like peeling his own skin with his nails everyone else compliments him, mentions how great he looks, never mind he’s had to buy new jeans and belts because his regular ones are too baggy after losing 15 pounds of fat he didn’t even have in the first place.

The world is as sick as he feels, he supposes, because Adam eats the flattery up, absorbs it like a sponge and never has enough of it.

It’s a little funny, too, how he feels like he’s backtracked fifty steps right to where he was when he couldn’t even sing unless his back was to the audience and he could pretend there was no one but his buds listening to the gibberish coming out of his mouth.

***

He’s grateful and glad he has the show to focus on. It’s not about him at all and it’s exactly what he needs to distract himself from everything else.

His friends and bandmates won’t leave him alone, taking turns in babysitting what they call a self-destructive Adam who’s a godsend and a genius for their next album but a menace and a curse for himself.

He knows his ADHD is bordering on unbearable because he can’t sit still for even a minute and people are starting to frown and stare at him. He’s always tapping a random song away with his feet when he’s trapped in his chair; propping a leg up and then down; leaning forward and backwards; following the beat with his head; he’s just always moving, always _on_.

He doesn’t think about how he can’t stop, dreads the moment anyone mentions it and lists it as an issue because this is it, this is _him_.

***

His nights are a mixture of face-planting on his bed and not using it all, spending the time with his drums or his piano or a guitar until his arms and fingers go numb despite how used he is to long hours of abusing them.

He looks at the mirror only in passing, gets distracted every time he tilts his head enough to realize that wow, yeah, his hipbones are almost razor sharp and he should possibly maybe start eating more regularly instead of depending on when he’s on set and it’s right in front of his face so he can just shove it in and get back to what he’s doing or when Jesse or James drop by and tell him to sit the fuck down and eat something or they’ll make him do it.

***

It’s one of those days in which he’s so restless it seems like he’s wired up on something and he feels a big hand on his shoulder that he knows who it belongs to without looking.

He wonders if he’s done something wrong for Blake to come and fetch him from his trailer like this.

“Lunch time, you obsessive little jackass,” Blake announces, scowling when Adam huffs and ignores the bait, deciding he’s going to make the most of the break and finding an empty rehearsal room to keep himself busy.

He starts playing, practically getting tunnel vision for the music and nothing else because he’s been itching to get his fingers on the keys for what feels like forever even though he didn’t sleep a wink last night. He sings under his breath, almost absentmindedly, not sure about the lyrics just yet but it’s still liberating to get it out of his chest somehow, to have an outlet for the sadness and defeat that have been plaguing him so thoroughly.

He’s not aware of Blake’s presence until he hears clapping, quickly followed by a hand squeezing the crook of his neck.

“New song?” Blake asks softly, like he wants to mimic Adam’s minute volume in the song while speaking.

He nods, cursing his inability to take in his surrounding sometimes when he’s supposed to be careful, when he doesn’t want anyone to know what’s going on in his life.

He ducks his head, waiting for the inevitable question. It wasn’t a song about breaking up—if he writes another one anytime soon he’s going to rip his own vocal chords off with his hands, he swears—but it’s by far the gloomiest, most disheartening song he’s ever composed and it has to be related to something, obviously, and Blake will see that because he’s a hick but he’s not dumb.

The next question is innocent and harmless enough, but Adam still doesn’t breathe in relief, still feels like he’s holding his breath, like he’s been holding his breath for so long that by now he’s forgotten how to breathe properly.

“Is it done yet?”

Adam shakes his head, wishes Blake could just praise him with _words_ —and how absolutely pathetic is that, the fact he’s fishing for compliments, craving them so bad it hurts when he doesn’t get what he wants—and get the fuck out and leave him alone to keep playing, let him get lost in the only safe haven he knows of.

Blake nods, like he understands more than what Adam is saying. “I hope you leave the music like it is now,” he drawls, “I know you rockstars have this tendency to think overdoing it is the way to go but sometimes—“ God, Adam _hates_ how everything he says sounds so genuine and warm, “Sometimes it isn’t, you know? Sometimes simple is good, better even. And this song is gold just the way it is now, Adam.”

Adam snorts, mostly to hide the fact he’s so _pleased_ Blake likes it that much, and doesn’t tell him the only missing part is the lyrics because he’s that petty and enjoys leaving him hanging.

“Duly noted,” he says obnoxiously instead and turns his attention back to the piano, assuming Blake will go away now.

He realizes he’s wrong belatedly when Blake opens the door and receives two plates with burgers and salad from a PA, closing it with his foot and not even asking Adam to scoot over before he’s lowering his butt to the piano bench.

“You’re an animal, Shelton,” Adam chides, taking the food from him enough for the both of them to swing their legs to the other side of the bench so they don’t eat on the piano, “This isn’t a fucking farm, you can’t just eat wherever you want.”  
“If you moved your skinny ass to a table we wouldn’t have to eat here, y’know,” he points out, “And don’t you think I don’t know you weren’t planning on doing it, so don’t try convincing me you were.”

Adam is too busy chewing to admit he’s right—and he wouldn’t do it even if he weren’t, alright, he admits it—and barely pauses until half his food is gone and his stomach is in knots from eating too fast and too much.

He didn’t even notice he was so hungry, can’t remember if he had breakfast or dinner.

“Ow,” he bends a little forward, wincing, and cracks a joke because that’s how he copes with being a fucking mess, “This is really low. I knew you hated me but I didn’t know you wanted to poison me, ugh.”

Blake ignores the quip, his piercing blue eyes unwavering in his scrutiny of him and Adam can’t take it.

The question he was waiting for comes unbidden and loud just as he’s fleeing the room.

“Adam, what’s going on?”

***

The question morphs to all its variations in the course of the week— _are you okay_ , _what happened_ , etcetera—and Blake seems to have an amazing radar for when Adam is starving and too tired to give him much of a fight, so he lets him sit beside him and bring him food that they eat together, just the two of them, by some miracle that probably involves Blake telling people he’ll handle the shitload of issues that is Adam Levine if they leave him room to do it.

He’s surely taking advantage of how much Adam likes having him around because he never bats an eyelid at how messy both his trailer and his dressing room are, he’s the only one who never tries to pick anything up and put it in its rightful place.

He’s a stubborn son of a bitch, that’s for sure, and Adam wants to call bullshit to all this sudden concern his giant friend is showing for him, but knows better than that. Blake is just too sincere to fake anything, especially something like this, and when he looks at Adam he almost manages to make him believe he cares.

He’s been feeling every tiny bit of rejection and mistreat a little too much though, so whenever Blake is about to convince him, Adam remembers how little he’s truly reached for Adam this season, how he’s more often than not the one that has to go sit on his lap if he wants to be close to him, how he has to tell him he loves him ten times to get one in return.

He’s been feeling fragile, in all honesty, so he’s not up to the challenge of discerning whether Blake is being playful as usual or actually means the things he says when they’re bantering.

Adam doesn’t really have the energy to get things anymore. He’s been thinking too much about Behati, about how what hurts the most—what keeps the sting right there, ever-present in the middle of his chest, like a festering thorn between his heartstrings—is how he lost her simply by being himself, how he’s certain there’s no better version of him that can result in him being less lonely.

It’s been long enough that he notices it’s not her that he misses, but the belief of having someone by his side who loves him for who he is—and _despite_ of who he is, too, someone who no matter what mistakes Adam makes will stick around to point it out to him and show him how to make it right, how to make amends, because that’s what Adam needs.

He needs patience and gentleness; he needs things that he doubts he’s ever going to get, things he doubts anyone will ever be willing to give him. Why would they? It’s not like Adam has anything worth fighting for when it comes to being just Adam, when he can’t sing his way out of all his flaws and limitations.

He has this habit, this horrible habit, of being a little too much when he’s supposed to be less and being less when he has to be more.

He just always seems to miss the mark, somehow.

***

“Oh my Gosh,” Blake booms when he finds him strumming notes in a guitar in the darkest corner of his trailer while everyone is on break, “You’re really incapable of stopping for three seconds, aren’t you? Jesus, put that down and sit down, Adam.”

Adam sighs, deep and long-suffering, and does as he’s told.

“I should tell you to fuck off,” Adam mumbles. He’s distantly aware he might be pouting and definitely being childish, but he’s past caring, “I kinda want to.”  
“Well, what’s stopping you, buddy?” Blake says, challenging, hunching until they’re level, “Hit me with your best shot, see if it works.”

He scoots closer to him until Adam can feel his larger frame radiating warmth to him.

Adam is so cold the contrast makes him shiver. He looks anywhere but at the man beside him, feeling exposed in ways he doesn’t even feel when he’s naked.

He bats Blake’s arm away when he tries to hug him.

 _That I don’t want you to listen_ , Adam thinks, _that I don’t want you to go, to leave me._

_That I don’t know if you want to stay._

“I don’t do pity hugs, Shelton,” he brushes off, aloof and insufferable in ways only he can be.  
“I know that, jackass,” Blake retorts, weaving his arm around Adam’s shoulders despite his resistance, “Neither do I, so c’mere and stop whining.”

Adam makes a face—that no one sees, so he doesn’t even know why he’s bothering—and hates, _loathes_ the way his body betrays him and melts against Blake’s side, like everything he needed was having him by his side.

And maybe it was, he has no fucking clue. He’s been so busy pushing everyone away it’s hard to tell.

He stutters a sigh, suddenly thankful Blake can’t see him, and nuzzles against his neck warily, waiting for the punch line, for him to tell Adam to man up and get his shit together.

“Would it work?” he whispers, arms coyly going around Blake’s broad frame. He almost lets a watery laugh out because even his stupid flannel shirt is so fucking _soft_ , just like his arms around him, just like his hands are always soft on him.  
“’Course not, you idiot,” Blake replies, steady but gentle, so gentle in pressing a kiss to Adam’s hairline that it makes his breath hitch, “I don’t know where your head’s been lately but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna leave you alone with whatever is eating at you.”

They end up eating fruit salad from the same bowl, which is ridiculous for a number of reasons.

It’s the first time Adam doesn’t feel heavy and slightly sick afterward, blames it on the food when he knows it’s probably the hug and the lack of judgment what did it.

He wants more of those, but won’t ask for them.

He’s tired of asking, of pleading for things he shouldn’t have to ask for, that should be given to him wholeheartedly and without prompting.

If only he deserved them, that is.

***

“You don’t wanna talk, then we don’t talk,” Blake says, his hands firm and comforting on Adam’s shoulders.

The country star looks a little nervous, for once, and he licks his lips like he’s tasting the words that are about to leave his mouth.

It makes Adam jumpy; that Blake is freaking fidgeting and that Adam’s eyes trace the sweep of his tongue on his lips without permission.

That’s no go land. He’s supposed to know that.

“But I’m not gonna stop asking, Adam,” Blake adds at length, his thumbs outlining the sharp lump of Adam’s collarbones, “You can cuss and hit me with your tiny hands if you want, but when you’re ready to talk I wanna know.”

Adam calls him names and frowns at being called little yet again even though what he means is _thank you_ and it’s more than a little frightening but he knows Blake _gets_ it.

His big goofy grin, crinkles around the eyes included, tells him that much.

***

They’re sitting on the edge of the empty stage when the admission finally stumbles out of Adam’s mouth.

“Behati and I broke up,” he says, shrugging, like it’s not the big deal he’s been making out of it, “I should probably tell everyone so they can stop saying I’m engaged. It’s really awkward when they do.”

Blake lets out a quiet _oh_ and waits in case there’s more coming, hand resting on Adam’s knee.

Adam isn’t going to elaborate and when that’s obvious enough, he hears Blake sighing and tries not to enjoy too visibly how he just holds him so tight he can’t breathe for a second.

“You were probably too much for her, buddy,” he commiserates.

Adam tenses, stops burrowing into his shoulder and laughs sharply and humorlessly at his words.

Blake is so wrong. So absolutely fucking wrong.

“Yeah, definitely,” he agrees bitingly, “Too much _me_ for her to handle, right?”

He leaves Blake there, reeling and confused, and does the cowardly thing.

He asks his agent to break the news to the press.

***

He’s pouring his frustration on his drums that night so he doesn’t hear the gate opening or anyone coming in until he looks up and sees Blake standing in front of him.

Adam is covered in sweat and trembling. He grabs a towel and sets his drumsticks on the stall, dabs his face and strives for nonchalance.

“Well hello there. This isn’t creepy at all. How long have you been here, cowboy?”  
“How long have _you_ been going at it? Adam, you’re shaking,” and he might roll his eyes at it, but the way in which Blake takes his bony fingers and squeezes until the tremor easies up has him swallowing thickly, “How long?”  
“I dunno,” he states because he really doesn’t know, “A long while, I guess. Why do you care? What are you even doing here, man?”  
“I said something wrong today, didn’t I? I came here to apologize,” Blake says, so heartfelt and soft Adam feels something crumbling inside of him, “Didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

He curses Blake’s stupid twang, curses how it should be hideous but it isn’t and it’s not only Blake’s voice what makes it pleasing instead.

It’s the whole package.

 _Don’t go there_ , he thinks, _just don’t. Miranda is a lucky woman, let’s leave it at that._

“I’m making dinner,” Blake proclaims like it’s his house and Adam happens to be there, “You go wash your stink away and I’ll have everything ready. You still like steak, right?”

His stomach roars in answer.

Blake guffaws at him, patting Adam’s retreating back while sauntering to the kitchen.

He doesn’t answer Adam’s questions with words, choosing to feed him and cuddle with him on the couch instead.

Adam wishes he didn’t love that so much, that _this_ —having Blake around, fussing over him—didn’t make him feel so much better.

But it does.

God, he’s such an attention whore.

***

They’re on commercial break when Blake strolls to his chair, cup filled with something that probably has rum in it clasped in one hand while the other gestures at Adam to get up.

He does, grinning like an idiot when Blake manhandles him to his lap, arm going around his waist, and offers his drink to him.

Blake’s big hand cradles his nape while he takes a sip and the crowd goes wild but Adam barely acknowledges it, too focused on leaning into the touch.

He files having Blake on his chair like one of his favorite moments on the show ever.

***

He’s still all over the place mentally when he finishes the song Blake heard but he sits him down and performs for him anyway, hoping it’s both enough of an apology and thanks for his company and understanding.

He goes to places with his voice he doesn’t usually visit, that he has never reached in Blake’s presence.

He’s aware he’s doing that lame thing again—craving compliments and approval—but at least he’s not showing off. The song calls for everything he does and he’s curious, looking forward to the country singer’s reaction.

Even through the corner of his eye as he plays the piano, Adam can see Blake is impressed.

“Holy crap, Adam,” Blake breathes, “Why on Earth wouldn’t you want to sing like that more often? God, you gave me chills. That was incredible. When is this coming out? I need to have it on repeat for at least a month.”  
“You’re a natural flatterer, aren’t you, Shelton?” Adam mocks, but he’s kidding and warm all over, even blushing a little bit, “Gee, I feel like one of the contestants when you tell them you’d buy their records right away.”  
Blake laughs, wriggles his eyebrows playfully. “Works like a charm, doesn’t it? I totally have you in my pocket now.”

Adam ducks his head, smile still lasting, and ignores the pang of longing in his heart as he replies quietly.

“Yeah. Yeah, you do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of filling prompt #3 of this post on [shevinefanfic](http://shevinefanfic.tumblr.com/post/85070535745/requests-to-fill), "Adam breaking down and Blake being there to comfort him."
> 
> Thank you so much for your kind comments. I've decided to keep working on this story and give Adam a happy ending.

_Where he messes up is when he gets involved and that’s song choice, his approach with the notes, his stage presence ideas. Any time he gets involved, that’s a problem._

Even hours after Blake says it, even knowing he’s just messing around with him like he always is, Adam can’t help but thinking he’s right, can’t help remembering all the incredible artists that chose to trust in him to take them to the top and how he failed them—God, he’s still reeling about Amber and Judith, he will _never_ be ready for someone to even joke about him being a bad coach because he does his fucking _best_ every time and when that isn’t enough, when his _best_ almost equals to _nothing_ —well, it bites.

It means Adam isn’t good enough and probably helped ruining someone else’s life and not just his own because he—yet again—missed the mark.

The words haunt him home and don’t let him sleep because he _agrees_ , because it was something he suspected and just didn’t want to accept and hearing it out loud from Blake, of all people, shatters something inside of him, something that feels important but that Adam can’t pinpoint.

It’s probably his self-esteem—not that there was much of it to begin with.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , Adam thinks, forlorn and hollowed out like he’s never felt in his whole life.

_I don’t matter._

***

He clings to the country star and three-times-in-a-row winning coach a little more than usual only to make sure he’s still allowed, to make sure he’s still welcomed to invade and ignore the personal space that Blake doesn’t seem very concerned about anyway, not with him or with anyone else ever.

Blake is a handsy kind of guy, there’s no denying that, and he flirts with so many people Adam can’t keep up with it, can’t get jealous and bitter every time he’s not the one whose face Blake is smooching or the one he’s calling hot.

In a way, he’s thankful Blake doesn’t give him any different treatment. It means that even when the press focus on their bromance and gush over it, Adam can stay grounded to reality, can turn on the TV to see Blake groping a random interviewer or kissing one of his Country buddies and know they’re friends but that in the end he’s no one special to the stupid hick his heart has decided to love.

The fact Blake is unavailable doesn’t really stop him from wanting him—what’s that expression? The heart wants what it wants. Yeah. So it doesn’t stop him. It has kind of the opposite effect because it leaves room for maybes and what ifs and things Adam sure as Hell shouldn’t think about.

Knowing he isn’t special to Blake, that he wouldn’t be even if he tried, on the other hand…

That does the trick.

That has Adam gulping cripplingly around all the broken pieces of his heart that want to rush out of his chest to spill in the pavement and die because there’s no hope, no chance for them to pour all the love they’ve been keeping for Blake until they all but burst with it, and there’s no possible scenario where it would exist, not even if Adam did not only sound like a girl but also were one.

They wouldn’t be meant to be even if he were a pretty blonde woman because Adam would still need too much.

He needs to feel, to _be_ special for whoever comes around and is crazy enough to think he’s good enough. He needs to be the only one, to have a smile and a touch and everything else too reserved and meant only for him to enjoy and relish.

He needs to be spoiled, to be _loved._

He needs so much but deserves so little.

And even knowing that, he can’t help but _wanting_.

***

He wakes up on Sunday two hours after he goes to sleep with tears streaming down his face, cheeks pulling with dried tracks in a way that tells him he’s been crying for a while but he can’t remember when it started or what he was dreaming about to cause it.

He hasn’t shed a single tear for Behati. The dampness in his pillow doesn’t feel like it has her name on it but his bed is so cold, so overwhelmingly empty that he starts crying for her too and he can’t seem to stop.

He misses her so much, realizes he really fucking screwed things up and it hits him like a freight train—how _perfect_ she was for him and how he lost her for being too much and not enough at the same time.

She was the only one of his girlfriends who never freaked out about his mood swings, the only one who would always laugh with him or kiss him depending on which one Adam needed the most, the only one that was so unbelievably sweet hardly anything would upset her not even her idiot of a boyfriend waking her up in the middle of the night because he wanted to play Candy Crush.

His sobs are so loud Bones ends up whining right along with him, his muzzle pressed close to Adam’s heart like he wants to lick his way inside and make it better but knows that he can’t.

Adam buries his face in his furry neck and cries.

***

They’re having lunch outside because it’s a nice day and they all needed a break from rehearsals.

The contestants usually end up being good friends but this season has taken the cake and Adam’s heart warms at seeing them comforting each other and laughing as they go through the same tasking, awful reality of the live shows.

Being a  part of this makes him feel better and it’s just what he needs right now instead of hiding in his trailer and force Blake to juggle time between him and his team, to coddle Adam when he has better things—important things—to do instead.

Maybe his guard is completely down, maybe it’s the lack of sleep or how awful he’ been feeling since the weekend with everything Jesse tried force-feeding him, maybe it’s the sum of all of the above—thing is, the minute a wisp of wind blows in the wrong direction and Adam ends up with the heavy scent of cigarettes filling his nose, he drops his fork and gags.

He can feel the conversation coming to a sudden halt around him and all the eyes on him as he’s covering his mouth with a hand and trying to stop the furious churn of his stomach with the other.

He’s this close to puking all over his trailer’s floor, but manages to reach the bathroom and lock the door behind him before falling on his knees and get reacquainted with the remains of mostly everything he’s eaten in the last two days.

***

There’s knocking outside. Adam hopes it’s the on-site doctor because he feels like shit and he’s been retching bile and saliva for what seems like a week.

He rinses his mouth weakly with a gulp of water and unlocks the door, making it approximately 0.4 seconds without having a big oaf with his hands all over him.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this grateful of Blake’s arms around him because he realizes he’s shaking so badly he can barely stand.

***

By the time the actual doctor of the set is seeing him, Adam is almost in full-blown panic attack.

He’s covered in sweat and trembling, hands so stiff that he can’t move them at all, every finger extended as far as it can go, and he thrashes feebly as Blake manhandles him to a position that allows the doctor to check him.

He’s been sick before but this has never happened to him. What is he going to do if he can’t play the guitar anymore?

Blake’s deep voice is making shushing, comforting noises that are reaching him through a fog, his arms holding him firmly, his chest a strong anchoring presence behind his back but Adam can’t appreciate or understand much of what’s going on because he’s sobbing like a fucking child and freaking the fuck out.

The doctor has to repeat the questions at least three times and Adam answers either nodding, shaking his head or with the most pitiful voice ever but he forces the words out anyway, refuses to let the doctor take him to a hospital when his team is counting on him to be there.

At some point, Adam ends up on his stomach with half his ass bare. He tries not to think about Blake’s hands holding his jeans down enough for the doctor to stick a needle in, tries not to think about Blake touching him where Adam hasn’t even dared fantasize he would but he does a piss poor job at it and whimpers even louder when he accepts that yeah, this is happening, and he’s really getting a shot while Blake holds him in his lap.

He hides his face in a cushion and sobs until the trembling lessens and he can fist a handful of the couch’s fabric.

Turns out he’s not dying or anything, he’s just mildly dehydrated.

That he wants to die is probably an understatement.

***

“Small sips, Adam,” Blake instructs gently once they’re alone, guiding Adam’s back to his chest again like he weights nothing.

Adam wants to complain he’s not a fucking child and without the nausea making him stupid he’s perfectly capable of drinking water on his own but the protest dies as soon as Blake’s fingers graze his chin and tip it back so he can bring a water bottle to Adam’s lips.

He opens his mouth and swallows, heartbeat racing at finally realizing just how close they are. He feels like an ass but he’s kind of happy that Blake is so hellbent on taking care of him, that is so obvious Blake thinks he’s worth all the trouble, that he—can Adam dare think about it?—cares, truly cares about him.

He realizes he’s so thirsty he can’t actually stop after just a sip but Blake is merciless and holds his head in place while he puts the bottle on the coffee table.

“Easy, rock star,” Blake chuckles softly, his warm breath tickling Adam’s temple, his hands snug on his waist, “You don’t wanna start throwing up and scare the shit out of both of us again, do you now?”

Adam huffs, suddenly annoyed and mortified.

Shit, the staff, the coaches, Carson, the contestants—everyone saw him breaking down. And with all the weight he’s been losing, he just knows what they’re going to think about Adam bolting from the table to retch like there’s no tomorrow.

And hey, maybe Blake agrees with that too, and that’s why he’s acting so horribly _caring._

“Give me,” he orders childishly, reaching for the bottle only to have Blake beating him to it and helping him drink again.

He does groan this time when Blake puts it away after Adam barely manages a sip. He’s too weak to do much more than slapping Blake’s arm in irritation.

“Give it back, damn it, I’m not five!”  
“Could’ve fooled me,” Blake counters, not loosening his grip one tiny bit, “Five year-olds don’t know how to take care of themselves either, y’know, you could mingle with them alright.”

Adam winces—why can’t he ever shove words back in his mouth when he says something stupid?—and waits for the lecture he can hear coming even in the silence of the trailer with Blake still figuring out what he’s going to say next.

“The doctor said that you need to be careful because what he gave you might not help with your stomach flu. Now, I know that means shit to you, but you scared the crap outta me so I’m gonna make sure you don’t get any worse so yeah, you’re drinking your fill in small sips and not a hair faster, you hear me?”  
Adam cocks his head to the side to stare at Blake in disbelief. “Stomach flu?”  
Blake snorts. “I knew you weren’t listening to a damn word the poor guy was saying,” he drawls, “Yes, stomach flu.”

Adam knows he shouldn’t feel relieved that he’s actually sick but having an excuse to escape everyone’s judgment does make him feel better.

It’s one problem less in the clusterfuck of his life.

He sighs and takes advantage of Blake’s kindness, turning on his side and snuggling closer to him until he can press his nose on the crook of his neck.

It’s a pity, really, that there’s no better place for him to be than right here, between Blake’s arms, that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than resting on his thighs, letting Blake’s slow and deep breaths rock him back and forth as he closes his eyes and more than enjoys being sick as a dog since that means he gets to be like this with him.

He’s almost willing to bet he’s asleep and dreaming when Blake starts peppering his forehead with kisses but every kiss feels too good, too real for Adam to be imagining them in his head.

Blake’s lips are slightly chapped but so plush, so warm and gentle.

It’s a feat not to start crying again, but he manages to feign he’s asleep because he doesn’t want Blake to stop.

He doesn’t want him to let go of him ever again.

He’s never wanted someone so much and never like this, never wanted someone to spend the rest of his life laughing and cuddling with.

He’s so screwed—so, so screwed.

“Don’t do this to me again, Adam,” Blake whispers, twang thick and rich as honey but something sour in his tone turning the plead into something so bittersweet that Adam’s chest spams with it, “Please, don’t scare me like this again.”

Adam knows he’s busted when the country star cradles his head in his big hands, thumbs wiping his cheeks sweetly and thoroughly, leaning down and twisting on the couch until they’re facing each other and it feels like they’re only a shallow breath away from kissing.

He feels Blake’s forehead against his for a second before the taller man is kissing Adam’s shoulder through his t-shirt.

His mind is scrambling to find some reasonable explanation for this, some scraps of data that could explain Blake’s behavior without giving it the meaning Adam is desperate to instil it with.

He comes out empty-handed and clings to his neck as Blake is back to looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

Blake doesn’t—he isn’t—this isn’t something he does with just everyone, is it? He’s married, for fuck’s sake, there’s a line even he doesn’t cross but it seems like he’s crossing it now.

Adam’s heart flutters and falters in its beating, the sudden and strong burst of hope messing with its rhythm.

The door of the trailer opens just as Adam is closing his eyes, feeling the first brush of Blake’s lips against his.

“Blake, is Adam awake? Dr. Matthews wants to check on him—“ Carson asks in a low voice only to stop and raise his tone in slightly strained nonchalance, “Yeah, okay, I’ll tell him Adam is feeling much better. I’ll knock when it’s time to get ready for the show. You guys carry on.”

He’s gone so fast neither of them has moved from where they are. Blake presses a kiss to his cheek, hands back around his waist, stubble burning Adam’s clean-shaven skin, and laughs.

“Good timing,” he says, grabbing the water from the table and handing it to Adam who takes a mouthful and stifles his own laughter, guessing what Blake is about to say, “Wouldn’t want to find out how tasty your vomit is, after all.”  
Adam makes a face and smacks Blake’s chest with the bottle. “You started it, jackass.”  
“That I did,” he agrees, pecking Adam’s nose like he can’t help himself, “Can’t say I’m really sorry about that.”

There’s a question in the tip of Adam’s tongue— _what about Miranda?_ —but he’s too much of a coward to utter it.

It takes virtually all of his willpower but he gives Blake just one close-mouthed kiss on the lips and stumbles out of his arms.

He’s not sure whether he wants Blake to still be there when he’s out of the bathroom or not.

He’s also not sure whether he cares enough about potentially being ‘the other woman’—and that might sound hilarious but it’s really not funny at all, not to him—to stop Blake from taking the next step and turning their bromance into a romance.

Oh, who the fuck is he kidding? He’s sure. He knows what he wants.

It’s hard not to run out of the shower.

He’ll take Blake any way he can have him.

If that makes him selfish, if that makes him a horrible Human being—well, so be it.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s unfair, Adam thinks, it’s definitely unfair that someone as big as Blake can be capable of the gentlest, smallest but most overwhelming touches he’s ever shared with anyone.

And Adam is a sensualist so he’d know.

It’s the string of soft kisses, fleeting and tiny like the beating of wings of a butterfly but all-consuming and adoring in ways that shouldn’t be possible to convey at all—not like this, not with Blake’s lips barely ghosting over his and off and on again, always mapping a new point on his skin whether behind his ear in that place that makes his toes curl or along his jaw, turning his breaths into stuttered gusts of too-warm air—what makes it, what shuts the nagging doubt and fear in his mind and unleashes the want and faith in his heart.

He kisses Blake back just as softly, if a bit shakily too.

He’s never felt so disarmed in his life.

***

Adam barely makes it through the two—long, never-ending—hours of the show.

He’s out of sorts for most of it but gathers himself enough to watch the performances with a critical eye and say coherent things every time that’s asked of him. All the stuff in between—the invited artists, the actors sitting in the audience, the jokes—is lost to him.

He sips water from a Starbucks cup with a straw and keeps it in his mouth even when he’s not drinking just because he can and because having Blake tut-tutting at him from his chair pleases him.

It keeps him warm and calm, giggling quietly to himself every time he catches Blake’s frown and stare directed at him.

He doesn’t overdo it. He mouths _I’m fine_ whenever it seems the vein on Blake’s temple is about to burst and plays nice for a little while after it too.

During breaks, Blake adjusts Adam’s sweater around him, presses the back of his hand to his forehead and absolutely refuses to let him stand up so all the chatter with him, Shakira and Usher happens right in front of his chair.

They do all the talking. Adam focuses on not passing out.

***

As soon as they’re off air, Blake covers Adam with his oversized jacket and picks him up like he’s either a particularly large baby or an especially flat damsel in distress.

None of these notions amuses Adam but he’s too damn tired to care.

He tucks his chin under Blake’s head, heaves a sigh so long and weary his bones hurt with it and closes his eyes.

Even with the prattling around them, he’s dozing before they leave the studio.

***

“You’re light as a feather,” Blake murmurs in the car.

He’s still holding Adam like he might either fall on his ass or run away if he lets go and Adam checks yet again that Blake’s lap is one of his favorite places to be if not _the_ one but his head is too fuzzy to visit that kind of complicated, horribly telling thought.

It takes an extra minute for the words to make sense. By then, it’s too late to say something so he just hums, evasive and groggy.

“You’ve lost, what? 20 pounds now?” Blake says to his hair and maybe he’s glowering. Adam thinks he hears a glower in his voice, “I want a list of every food that hasn’t managed to offend your delicate sensibilities so I can feed you properly.”  
“Hm-mm,” Adam says, not even sure if he’s agreeing or protesting.

The last thing he’s aware of before falling asleep for real is of laughter tickling his throat.

***

He’s not sure how much he’s been out of it but eventually a nudge on his shoulder makes him wince, burrowing deeper into his pillow and the impressive amount of blankets Blake decided that he needed.

He blinks and blushes, realizing he’s still wrapped in Blake’s jacket.

There’s no cologne filling his nostrils when he inhales deep, only the fresh smell of Blake’s soap, probably, and his aftershave too.

“Adam, you need to eat something,” Blake tells him, voice strained, “You’ve been dead to the world for hours. Drink some water and eat, please, or you won’t get better.”

Adam immediately feels like an ass.

It’s a like a bucket of cold water that spoils how comfortable and warm he was.

Blake is obviously tired of taking care of him. He wants to go home, go home to—no, not _her_ but maybe only because she’s not in town—and Adam insists in keeping him busy, acting like he’s a child instead of a grown-up man who can take care of himself.

“Okay,” he says, purposefully subdued, “I’ll do that. Go home, Shelton. I’ll see you later.” _I guess. If you’re still in the mood to sleep with me when I actually feel up to it._

Using Blake’s last name as casually as ever after spending half the day with his mouth sealed to his feels so wrong once it rolls off his tongue he almost gags with it.

Blake’s flinch when he hears it doesn’t help at all.

“Thanks for—you know,“ he pauses, waving a graceless arm around to indicate he means everything, “You didn’t have to.”

It’s only then Adam is aware enough of his surroundings to see the steaming bowl of soup on his bedside table. It doesn’t look particularly appetizing but then again nearly nothing does to him, these days, and there are fried croutons in it which Adam knows are delicious and can feel his mouth watering a little just by looking at it.

It smells fantastic, too.

Adam tugs sheepishly at the navy jacket around him, peering at Blake through his lashes once he’s repeated enough times to himself that the fact he’s an asshole is not new and that Blake should be used to it by now and for some unfathomable reason decided to stick around nonetheless.

“You brought me soup,” he states dumbly.  
“I did,” Blake accepts. He looks serene despite of Adam’s obvious intent of dismissing him and his eyes are so impossibly blue and caring he can’t stare at them for too long, feels like he’s burning himself on purpose with the hottest fire there is on Earth, “Try a little, see if your stomach can take it.”

He uncaps a bottle of water and extends it to him as a proverbial peace offering in the tense silence that follows his words.

Adam is still painfully thirsty but he turns to lie on his side and sips tentatively a few times, deciding bigger gulps aren’t worth it. He’s too exhausted for that.

Blake doesn’t take the water from him like he did in the afternoon, limiting to look at him and wait patiently for him to be done before placing it on the nightstand within easy reach.

He acts like Adam didn’t say a thing and dutifully helps him down half the portion of soup.

Adam doesn’t tell him he can’t finish it because he feels too heavy and isn’t used to consume these quantities of food anymore and that it has little to do with the stomach flu but Blake seems to intuit it anyway.

He kisses Adam’s brow so very tenderly tears well up in his eyes and he can’t for the life of him keep them in. He blinks and most stick to his eyelashes but some trickle down his cheeks and he hates himself a little more for each of them that makes it out.

Blake kisses them too, toes off his boots and climbs on the bed next to Adam to hold him to his chest and hush him every time Adam wants to croak an apology for being such a fucking monumental mess.

He dozes to Blake’s warm hand on his nape and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

***

He hears Blake talking on the phone with someone every now and then.

Each time, he almost wakes up, stirring and moaning very undignifiedly but not awake enough to care about how he sounds.

Each time, Blake finishes the call hastily and lures him back to sleep. It’s more the deep rumble in his chest what does the trick and not the sentences Adam isn’t catching.

Half-conscious, he kisses the span of Blake’s skin available to him, tilting his chin just enough to reach the top of his sternum, sighing tiredly but contentedly with the effort once he’s done.

Blake’s arms tighten around him.

He sleeps for a long while.

***

When he wakes up the only thing he wants to do is go back to sleep and never wake up again. He doesn’t want to leave this bed while Blake is in it, snoring softly and still refusing to let him go even fast asleep.

He swallows and very carefully disentangles himself from Blake’s unrelenting grip.

He feels cold instantly but clenches his jaw against it and gets up, fishing for his phone in the darkness of the room.

He replies to his messages—Jesse is sick too and Adam realizes neither him or Blake were actually paying attention to the doctor on set because it’s obviously food-poisoning, not stomach flu, and smiles slightly without being aware of it—and a couple of emails on autopilot, most of his brain preoccupied musing whether he’s having a particular long hallucination featuring Blake Shelton or if everything actually happened and he’s been coddled by him for the last twenty four hours.

He brings hesitant fingertips to his lips, feeling the ghost of Blake’s kisses so acutely that he loses his balance and ends up sprawled on the floor of his bedroom, a few steps from the bed.

A particularly loud snore echoes then. Adam bites back a laugh in spite of himself.

He lets Bones lick his hands and face to his heart’s content, gently scratching him beneath his muzzle, and staggers to the bathroom.

He’s trembling by the time he makes it and drinks tap water until he’s almost uncomfortably full.

He lights a few scented candles and draws a bath.

***

He didn’t lock the door and the water is lukewarm by the time it opens and Blake pokes his head in.

“Feeling better?” he asks all the way from there.

Adam beckons him in with a tilt of his head. Blake comes in sluggishly, like he’s either waiting for him to change his mind and toss him out or unsure about what could come from this.

Adam smiles, feeling less like dead warmed over and more like an actual person. Nudity has never bothered him and there are a few bubbles on the tub that he could use to shield his modesty if he so wanted but he makes no move to rearrange them appropriately to do so.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m fine.”

Blake gives him a dubious look, six foot five inches of awkward hick as he sways just the slightest bit on his feet—sleepiness or just nervousness, Adam can’t tell—and looks everywhere but at the tub.

“Going shy on me now, Big Country?” he teases, a lot more humor in his voice than what he actually feels, the staccato of fear at the possibility of Blake leaving him to go and be a devoted, faithful husband coursing through him with every beat of his heart, “Come sit beside me or join me, don’t be a prude.”

With a start that he stifles, he realizes he’s ready to fight for this, fight for something he definitely doesn’t deserve but that he wants more than anything despite of it.

He’s ready to seduce Blake into staying if he has to.

He lets his posture change just a bit, just enough for it to be inviting and not overly wanton. He doesn’t spread his legs or exposes his throat, relaxing his shoulders and softening his expression instead, eyes asking a question that he can’t put into words and virtually begging for a _yes_.

He sees Blake gulping, sees his frame tensing minutely but visibly. He sees him eyeing the door and stutters a sigh, lungs crippled with terror and hating himself for not knowing how to go slow, how to do things _right_.

“You look better, but you need to eat something, Adam,” Blake says at length. He makes an aborted move to come closer to the tub and then steps back instead, “I’ll—I’ll go fix brunch for us, alright?”  
Adam can’t bite his tongue fast enough to stop himself from asking. “You’re not leaving?”

It’s such a stupid question, really, he knows the answer the minute it leaves his mouth, sees it Blake’s ruffled clothes and his disheveled hair and the marks of the pillow on his left cheek.

It’s such a stupid question and the answer is clear, gloriously clear, but Adam can’t bring himself to believe it.

“No,” Blake replies with a soft smile, “Hurry up or you’ll end up looking like a peaky raisin, you moron.”

***

Adam dries his body slowly and towels his hair even more so, stalling and hating himself for it because he wants nothing more than to be with Blake and kiss him again but unable to stop all the same.

He thinks back to the moment in which he met Blake, the first time they shook hands, the first time they bantered, the first time they shared a laugh. He thinks back and remembers perfectly how impossible it was to resist smiling and teasing right back, how impossible it was not to want to meet Blake outside of the studio and have a few drinks in his company. He thinks back and remembers how funny and genuine and _warm_ Blake’s always been and something pulls and gives right in the middle of his chest.

He’s cold and still feeling like he could crumble any second but that’s not why he trembles in that moment.

He’s always been aware of it because it’s always been there, in the back of his mind, conveniently out of his everyday thoughts.

He’s loved Blake for longer than he can tell for sure, for longer than he ever thought possible, for longer than he ever wanted but the heart wants what it wants, doesn’t it? And maybe Behati somehow _knew_ , somehow saw, and rightfully decided to go look for what she deserved somewhere else, a heart full of love that was only hers to keep and treasure, possibly belonging to someone far more stable than Adam could ever hope to be.

And Adam unwittingly pushed her away, incapable of stitching his heartstrings back together after cropping Blake out of the picture.

He thinks back and recalls how much he always talked about Blake while they were doing the show and how indulgent her smile was even that one time she asked him if the guys got jealous of his thing—his _thing_ , she’d said. Adam was so stupid, so incredibly stupid—with Blake.

He thinks back and recalls James answering to pretty much the same question during an interview.

 _Blake can have him_.

Adam doesn’t know if Blake truly wants to have him or for how long he wants to, if that’s even the case, but he’ll take what he can get.

If Blake wants to get this out of his system and move on then Adam will play along and hide the threatening, despairing edge of his emotions as much as he can.

He knows that no matter what happens they will still be friends when it’s over and that’s the only comfort he needs, the only comfort he will allow himself to have.

He picks his best pair of jeans, his favorite t-shirt, puts some product in his hair and stares at himself in the mirror.

 _You can do this_ , he tells himself, _Go get him._

***

Blake understands him better than Adam understands himself sometimes.

He turns on the TV in the living room, puts a couple of bowls with salad on the coffee table and helps him just a small portion of rice and steak. It’s the right amount so that Adam can eat it without feeling sick and without leaving half of it to go to waste so there’s no additional guilt or shame when he’s done.

He’s sipping beer like this is one more regular meal they’re sharing but Adam can feel him watching him through the corners of his eye every time he pretends to be engrossed in the movie he picked.

Adam drinks water and plays nice until he’s sure Blake is done eating and proceeds to kiss him within an inch of his life.

Blake stammers a groan, hand scrabbling for the remote, and turns off the TV at the same time he flickers his tongue over the roof of Adam’s mouth, big palms encompassing his waist and gradually but intently slipping lower.

He tows Blake’s big body on top of his with one leg around his hips and both hands on his shoulder blades and sprawls on the couch with just one goal in mind.

For a little while, he wants to pretend things are easy and they can kiss each other silly like a couple of love-struck teenagers.

***

“Adam—“ Blake breathes, his name ending in a moan that has Adam grinning beneath him.

He grinds up against him again, victorious, feeling ridiculously small but powerful having Blake like this.

He nips at Blake’s pulse point on his neck, feeling it racing with his touch, and he closes his eyes tight not to see the ring Blake is still wearing in his left hand, the hand he keeps petting and tugging his hair with.

“Let’s go upstairs, yeah?” Adam suggests, his tone alluring and his body language even more so, his right hand brushing Blake’s half-opened shirt all the way to his buckle where it lingers, “Let me thank you for being so good to me, Blake. Let me make it up to you.”

Blake is quiet when he pulls Adam to his feet but Adam lets the barely-blue of his eyes—pupils blown wide from making out—and the puffing curve of his parted lips reassure him even when his face is as open as it’s always been, this thing that Adam doesn’t want to ponder on plain for him to see in it, this dangerous edge of resolve that has nothing to do with lust and a lot to do with something that he has to be projecting.

He has nothing to offer to this caring, hilarious, handsome man. He has his body and several rocky pieces that are who he is but he doesn’t fool himself, doesn’t think for a second that’s going to be enough because it’s not, he knows that, and once Blake finds out he _will_ leave and Adam has to be ready if he wants to survive that.

And when Blake leaves him, he won’t hate him. He never could. Their friendship will be like constantly ripping a scab off a wound that still hasn’t healed properly and never will because he won’t let it but maybe the pain will be less torture and more company in the end.

Blake takes his hand in his. Adam thinks he’s going to lead the way and lets him, breath catching in his chest when everything Blake does is bowing and kissing the back of his hand, gazing up at him with _that_ still on his lovely _dumb_ dimply face.

Adam blushes but frowns. “What?” he prompts, defensive.  
“Nothing,” Blake twangs, kissing his way up to the inner side of his wrist without forgetting his knuckles, “Just trying to make sure you know one thing before we do anything.”  
“Yeah?” Adam prompts, voice an octave higher, “And what is that?”  
“You don’t owe me nothing, Adam,” Blake says, tone gentle but eyes steady, fixed in his, accent as thick as Adam’s ever heard it, “I’m dying to learn how to make love to you, I really am, but I don’t want you thinking you _have_ to let me. That’s not right for us, it just isn’t.”  
“But—“ Adam stammers, struggling to seem remotely serious with even more color gathering in his cheeks, “But you’ve been babysitting me the whole season, I think it’s only fair that—“  
“I’ve been _taking care_ of you,” Blake amends firmly, straightening up to cup his face in his hands, “Because I wanted to. It’s the least I could do, Adam, ‘cause you mean so much to me and I’ve tried my damnedest not to take advantage of you so please, don’t make me feel like I am. If we do this then we do it right, not to repay anything but because we _want_ to, okay?”

Adam blinks up at him, dazed, his mouth moving on its own accord as he reels and tries to process what Blake said.

“Okay,” he utters, still hearing _you mean so much to me_ like a broken record in his head, “Sure.”

Blake sighs, patient and kind and everything Adam needs but shouldn’t have, and kisses his eyelids over and over until Adam sags against his chest and clings to his shirt.

 _I love you._ “You mean a lot to me too, dickhead,” he confesses, attaching the insult but failing to reduce the fondness in his voice.  
Blake chuckles, deep and sweet beneath his ear and says, “I know,” carding a hand through his hair almost reverently. Adam can hear the smile in his voice even though he can’t see it, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies to those of you who spot the quote I shamelessly stole from Supernatural.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the road, guys. Thanks for sticking around and being so sweet. This was my first Shevine story and I'm so relieved it's finally finished.

They have to keep it a secret, that much is obvious.

It’s unspoken, this arrangement between them, and Adam can’t be careful in following rules he doesn’t know about so he’s climbing the walls a little, if only when Blake isn’t looking.

Many times a day, he finds himself wanting to ask _what are we doing?_ or _why haven’t we fucked?_ which are, he admits, completely different questions with completely different levels of inappropriateness.

They kiss and snuggle when they’re alone—the latter when they’re not alone too, bromance to back it up and all that—and it could be paradise for Adam if he weren’t so fucking paranoid and crazy, convinced he’s going to fuck it up soon because _he has no idea what they’re doing._

It’s still more than he ever expected to have so he says nothing, follows Blake’s lead and realizes that, when he’s too captivated with the man’s attention and stops thinking too much about _everything—_ about everything they are and everything they’re not—he’s almost happy.

***

He eats more at Blake’s insistence. Or, rather, Blake tricks him into eating more, cute sneaky giant that he can be when he wants to.

He discovers quite quickly that Adam will eat a slightly larger amount of anything he personally cooks whether it’s one of his favorite meals or not, will eat more after rehearsing when he’s so exhausted he’s practically half-asleep by the time he makes it home, will eat more after spending at least half the day with him, will just eat more if he’s around to make sure he does and he makes the most of it.

By their three-weeks mark—and no, Adam isn’t counting, and if he is it’s a countdown and he won’t say whether they’ve got long left or not—Adam fits almost as nicely as he initially did in the new, smaller clothes he bought half along the way to being almost skin and bones, if a particularly attractive and not so feeble set of skin and bones.

He doesn’t remember ever seeing Blake as happy as he looks when he hugs him from behind while Adam is trying on some clothes and takes a deep breath, nose buried in the base of his neck, like a man freshly out of water that was about to sink.

“You’re always beautiful to me, Adam,” he whispers, lips caressing the skin on his nape and making Adam’s pulse jump. He doesn’t blush, but it’s a close thing, “But I like you more like this.”

 _Healthy_ , he doesn’t say but Adam knows what he means. And it’s not an _I love you_ , either, and Adam has heard that kind of praise from everyone and their mother so he doesn’t understand why his heart skips a beat, why he’s smiling widely, why _beautiful_ sounds so sincere and special and _loving_ instead of the objective, somewhat cold good-looking, handsome, hot, he’s been hearing for so long.

Maybe it’s the word that’s romantic by itself. Maybe it’s the way Blake says it like he’s just found out the true meaning of it looking at Adam, like he didn’t know what he was really talking about until now, if he ever used it before on anyone else.

He turns around, stands on his tip toes and tugs Blake down for a deep, pleased kiss.

Blake keeps making these little surprised noises of appreciation whenever he does. Adam loves them so he keeps cajoling them from him.

Blake’s arms go around his waist and for a long moment, only they exist.

He loves all of this, even if he doesn’t understand what _this_ is.

***

The ring is still on Blake’s finger and it makes Adam want to shoot himself in the face or go play chicken in the busiest street in LA every time he catches sight of it.

It’s a reminder of what a horrible person he is and he hates it.

What he doesn’t hate about it is how Blake doesn’t even touch it anymore during the show. He’s so used to seeing him using it as an anchor of sorts when he has to speak up that it shocks Adam to see he’s not doing that anymore, that his hands are used to gesture sometimes but otherwise remain calm and steady and the ring is only there tacitly, not actively playing a role in helping Blake face the crowd.

Adam is darkly delighted about that and he’s thrilled whenever Blake turns to look at him for a bit while giving a speech.

He doesn’t have any idea how on Earth he could ever become anybody’s steading point when he himself is anything but steady but he finds he’s way too happy about it to analyze why Blake would choose him for it, choose him over his _wife_.

Suddenly, he understands why so many women are so happy being the other woman.

You can still be _everything_ , despite of having to deceit and conceal and steal for it.

It can be fantastic, despite of it all.

***

It goes to his head, obviously, so the next Wednesday night after an especially taxing live show his mouth forms words without his mind having a chance to veto them first.

“Is your right hand really that good?” he asks, petulant and out of the blue, “Because mine is but I like thinking you’d be better.”

Blake cracks up so hard he almost falls off the couch.

He manhandles Adam to straddle his legs, still laughing that booming laugh of his, and Adam blushes a little in embarrassment but otherwise looks unapologetic and curious about what answer his brash words will get.

“Good thing you’re so pretty,” he kisses him hard, gets Adam nicely cross-eyed and grins, foolish and proud, “Because you’re shit at romance.”  
“I’m good at sex,” Adam replies, cocky but worried he’s lying because he’s never done anything beyond kissing with a man. Unless groping counts and he’s only ever done that with Blake.

Blake stares at him, eyes widening like he’s suddenly had an epiphany.

“Oh my Gosh,” he exclaims, “You do take your dates to McDonalds, don’t you?”  
Adam hits him out of principle, hisses. “Shut up.”  
“That’s alright,” Blake soothes, chuckling a bit, nuzzling his nose a bit more. Maybe Adam’s heartbeats are loud enough for him to hear or at least to feel as they’re pressed together, “I can be romantic for both of us.”

I’m not romantic, Adam thinks that night. He watches Blake snoring away in that carefree, relaxed way of his, loud but not too much, his hands gentle but ever-present on Adam’s body, in all the safe but problematic places that say _hey, I want you, but I want you for more than one night, I want you by my side each morning when the sun comes out and each night when there’s nothing but stars above and our breaths trying to meld into one._

I’m not romantic, he thinks, but I know what love is; love is enjoying every second with you and dreading every second without you. Love is hearing you say my name like it means something, like it means everything. Love is watching that look in your eyes and knowing is me you want. Love is giving and taking, always more the first than the latter. Love is being more terrified than you’ve ever been in your life but knowing you wouldn’t change it for the world because this is it, this is where you’re meant to be, your real home with no walls and no roof but with dimply smiles and bright eyes and whispered, honey-accented reassurances.

Adam smiles, kisses Blake softly on the mouth and burrows into his side, feeling less inadequate and more like he’s worth something, even if he’s not sure what that means yet.

He doesn’t utter a word to Blake about it but the country singer beams the next morning when Adam is muzzy and adorable after the best night of sleep he’s had in months.

Adam hides his smile behind a sleeve, tugging Blake’s shirt closer to his still sleep-warmth body, and smacks him with the spatula when Blake tries to steal one of the pancakes he’s making for breakfast.

He eats two and he’s full but that’s okay because Blake demolishes the rest of them and stealthily buys Adam’s favorite yogurt for mid-morning snack.

Adam decides Blake can’t be the only cocktease in the relationship and eats it in front of everyone making the filthiest noises he can manage.

“You two are hopeless,” Carson sighs, put-upon but amused as Blake hurries stiffly from the room, “Hopeless.”

Blake’s team is in stitches. Adam’s team isn’t much better, if a little more embarrassed of their thirty-five-but-actually-twelve years old coach.

If the joke means Usher and Shakira narrow their eyes at them from then on and just _know_ they don’t have a bromance anymore—not _only_ —well, at least Carson has someone to complain about them now.

***

Blake is, indeed, a romantic.

They’ve been dating for two months—they could have, say, another one ahead and that’s it, the countdown will stop there—and Adam comes into Blake’s place in LA to find a path of caramel-scented candles from the hall to the living room where there are flowers and a three-main-courses dinner on the table.

He trips, drops all his things on the floor, gets rid of his jacket just as haphazardly and runs to the kitchen to find Blake having a staring contest with what looks like a chocolate pie in the oven.

“It smells ready but it doesn’t look ready,” Blake offers as hello. He groans, clearly frustrated, “I don’t want it to burn but if it’s uncooked—“

Adam drops on his knees behind him, clings to Blake’s broad back and plants a kiss on his temple, lightly rubbing his own stubbly cheek against Blake’s.

His heart seems to leap out of his chest when he notices Blake isn’t wearing his ring.

Miranda is still the elephant in the room, even without her ghost with them, but Adam is grateful for the respite of the constant knowledge that he’s a home wrecker, that Blake might be his for a little while but it’s temporary and not real, not meant to last.

“It’s chocolate, right? It’ll still be good. I’ll eat it.”  
“Should’ve bought the damn thing instead of pretending I can cook pastries,” Blake grouses and he goes on about it for a while but eventually Adam manages to kiss his sulk away and they have a lovely dinner.

Blake even stops after the second glass of champagne and turns on the stereo with a selection of Barry White’s songs—which is self-admittedly pants-dropping music for Adam—in it that have the younger man bursting into laughter and giving him a sly look.

“You think you’re being subtle?” he mocks but he’s not event trying to hide the mirth in him, and it bleeds into his voice and Blake notices and grins like a mad man, “I thought romance meant subtlety and all that shit. I could’ve done this too, you know.”  
“But you didn’t! I did,” Blake all but sing-songs, bending to nip at his neck, his palm warm and wide on Adam’s waist, his other hand curled on his hip like it belongs there, “And you love it.”  
Adam ducks his head, hiding it in Blake’s shoulder as the man rips a soft moan out of him. “Yes,” he breathes. _I love you_ , “I do.”

***

After all the time they’ve both been waiting for this, it’s hard to make it past the stairs.

But they somehow do, pulling and pushing in turns to get the other one step closer to the bedroom where three different kinds of condoms and lube await them.

Adam has to pause in his blind, one-handed unbuttoning of Blake’s shirt—his other hand busy pressing the heel over the promising bulge in Blake’s jeans—to giggle and stop the country singer’s ministrations to his collarbone.

“Guess your right hand isn’t that good, after all,” he teases but it’s endearing really, to know that Blake has no idea what he’s doing, that he’s just as clueless in this as Adam is, “You’ve stocked up for sure, cowboy, hmm?”  
“Shut up,” Blake hisses but there’s laughter and heat in his eyes and he makes sure Adam doesn’t feel like joking at all for the next hour.

Blake promises in a whisper Adam is the first man he’s ever been with and the only one he’s ever wanted, then proceeds to contradict his words tipping the axis of Adam’s world so thoroughly he’s convinced sex is ruined to him forever unless it’s Blake who’s touching him, mouth hot and clever, gentle in all the places Adam needs it to be gentle and wild in all the places he doesn’t, big but caring fingers stretching him slowly in both sweet torture and pleasure, attentive in every way Adam needs when he’s almost completely soft after Blake has pushed all the way in and it’s too much and too big for a while and Adam almost wants it to stop but then their bodies just _click_ and begin to dance and sing together and Adam hopes they get to do this again on every available surface, during every available moment they have until—well, until Blake decides it’s been enough, that he’s had everything there is to have of Adam and more and leaves nothing in his wake.

***

“I’m so gay,” Adam muses the next morning, his knees still terribly but deliciously weak so he stumbles back to bed after his short trip to the bathroom and enjoys Blake’s chortle at his joke.  
“Me too,” Blake fills in, sleepy and sated as he pulls Adam back to his side. He has the worst case of bed hair ever but he’s never looked better in Adam’s eyes because they’re still here the morning after and nobody’s freaking out and it’s ten times more amazing than he ever thought it could be, “But only for you.”

Adam almost opens his mouth to say _me too_ but decides actions speak louder than words and dives under the sheets to lick and kiss his way down Blake’s slightly furry belly, his hands gripping Blake’s thighs, telltale of what’s to come.

He makes a compelling case of it. He thinks Blake is entirely convinced.

***

Adam is still waiting for the honeymoon phase to be over when the show ends and Blake has no reason to stay and will be flying back to Oklahoma, back home to Miranda, soon.

It’s worse than a bucket of cold water. It’s like thawing an iceberg just to put him in it and have it frozen again.

He spends all the day he realizes it throwing everything he’s eaten and even _thought_ about eating up.

It’s too bad he can’t spew his love for Blake that easily, too bad he has to keep it inside and let it rot and turn his heart into carnage, into pieces that Adam will be too exhausted to put back together and no one else will care enough to pick up and try to discern what they are or where they belong.

He figures it’ll be easier this way and doesn’t answer Blake’s calls anymore—or anyone else’s, for that matter.

He just needs a little while to grieve for what was never his. Then he’ll talk with Blake as if nothing happened no matter how much it hurts because for Blake, probably nothing ever did.

***

He’s dreaming they’re back to the start and he can have their three months together all over again when he feels soft, familiar lips on his cheeks.

His eyelids flutter open lazily and he stutters a sigh that’s more a sob than anything else when he finds Blake kneeling beside his bed, his big blue eyes worried and apologetic.

Adam wants to crawl into a hole and die. Of course Blake would regret what they’ve done, of course he would—why wouldn’t he?

Still, goodbye sex seems like a marvelous idea to someone who hates himself as much as Adam does so he goes for it but Blake doesn’t, he just climbs on the bed to hold Adam in his arms and kiss a trail up from his shoulder to his cheekbone.

Adam struggles as much as he can—it’s feeble and futile, he knows, but he’s as stubborn as he’s stupid so he keeps trying anyway—but Blake holds him fast to his chest and grips his hands back whenever Adam’s managed to free one of them.

In the end, is the lack of his wedding ring what gives Adam pause.

That’s odd, he thinks, his fingers moving on their own accord to trace the slightly paler skin of Blake’s finger.

“Lost your ring?” he asks, voice a mess of tears and heartache, “That’s a bit telling, you know, even I know that and I haven’t been married. She’s going to know.”  
“She?” Blake echoes dumbly.  
He can’t believe he has to say it. “Your _wife_ ,” he says, biting, “She’s going to know you _cheated_ on her with _me_.”

Blake finally lets go of him. He blinks at Adam, almost in a daze, and pinches the bridge of his nose with so much vehemence Adam winces and pries his hand from his face.

“I’m an asshole,” Blake mumbles, his tone wrecked, “God fucking damn it, I can’t believe I—“  
“Hey, hey now,” Adam shakes his head and cups Blake’s face tentatively, “I’m an asshole too. We’re in this together, okay? Or we were—huh—I don’t think you—“

Blake clutches the hands on his cheeks, eyes a little too wide and moist. Adam shuts the fuck up on instinct.

“Adam, Miranda and I—we’re separated,” Blake says, slow, tipping his head just so that he can kiss an apology to Adam’s palm, “We’re not divorced, not yet, but it’s just a matter of time, the papers aren’t through yet. We’ve signed everything, divided everything, nobody is cheating on nobody here. I didn’t tell you because I’m dumb and I thought you knew but you didn’t because I kept wearing that goddamn ring for the show. The producers asked me to, I didn’t want to and then I just forgot. I’m so sorry.”  
“Oh,” Adam breathes.

If he weren’t crouching on the bed in front of Blake, he’d fall over, he’s sure of it.

He blinks, his tears as dumbfounded as he feels with the news, half of them still streaming down and the other half attached to his lashes.

“Yeah,” Blake makes a face, “ _Oh_.”  
“You’re not married.”  
“No,” Blake confirms, forehead pressed against his. Adam closes his eyes, a soft, still disbelieving sound leaving his throat when Blake kisses the corners of his eyes and his eyelids, “And I would’ve been here sooner if it weren’t for that stupid wrap party they made me go to. Gosh, Adam, I’m so sorry.”  
“You’re single.”  
“No,” that has him opening his eyes. Blake grins and kisses the tip of his nose, says, “I’m sure you know this bouncy, funny little guy I’m with. He’s a rock star. He’s very sexy too and I’m in a very, _very_ committed relationship with him.”  
Adam smiles a little, a sudden burst of hope bringing color to his face and fresh blood rushing through his heart. “How committed exactly? Sounds like he could be a very lucky guy.”  
“Very,” Blake says, “I’ve decided to move to his hometown and all so it’s pretty serious.”  
“What?” Adam absolutely does not screech, “You’re moving _here_?”  
“’Course I am, you jackass,” Blake retorts, about one hundred and ten percent fondness and zero bite in his voice, “I don’t wanna lose you so I’m gonna buy a house here, way away from the city because I don’t like it all that much but I do like you a lot so that makes up for it.”  
“ _Blake_ ,” Adam breathes, awed, “You don’t have to—“  
Blake hushes him with a kiss that’s mostly lips sealing lips, another promise somehow there too. “I know. I want to.”  
“But people—“  
“Are going to talk. I know. Let’s cross that bridge when we get there, okay? You’re my priority, Adam, and I’m staying right here with you, I’m not going anywhere unless you kick me out and you better kick me pretty damn hard otherwise I’m staying anyway.”  
“Not happening,” Adam says in a rush and he picks up where Blake left, kisses him long and deep and meaningful with all these things neither of them are really saying but that are there between them all the same.

They don’t say _I love you_ but there’s no need for that, not yet.

The next time Adam panics maybe Blake will have to bring up the big L word but for now, Adam is kiss-drunk and elated and so in love his world begins and ends in Blake’s arms.

He’d go through the same misery and thrice that if he gets to have and keep Blake in the end.


End file.
